And then came middle school.
It was about four days into seventh grade when Kai Boyd, a short, sporty boy with a smattering of freckles across his nose (they gave his face a misleading innocence), approached me.
“Hey, Swallow.”
“Hey.”
“So… do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Swallow?”
Unfortunately, my naivete resulted in an honest answer. “Uh… yeah. Of course. Everyone does.”
“She does!” he shrieked. “She swallows!”
Maple Dunn was kind enough to explain my answer in a detailed, sexualized context. That’s when I shortened my name to Low (and, possibly, lost interest in sex). My parents were hurt by my rejection of the highly meaningful moniker they had chosen for me.
“Swallows are tiny little birds capable of great feats,” my father said. “Just like you.”
“You can’t change to please other people,” my mom added. “Do you want to live your life as a conformist?”
But I wasn’t tiny or capable of greatness. And I certainly wasn’t a conformist. (If I had been, I would have had more friends.) In the end, my parents understood my decision, but insisted on calling me Swallow when we were at home. I grudgingly allowed it. Nikki Minty was now crossing the stage to a chorus of cheers from her popular friends and polite, supportive applause from her parents and brother. With the alphabetical roll call, I knew I would be next. I was prepared for the snickers and whispers. While the kids who had grown up with me already knew my full name, the others didn’t.
“Swallow Morrison.”
As I stood, a male voice rang out from behind me.
“And she does!”
There was a chorus of gasps and titters, stern looks from the school administrators on the stage. My face burned with anger and embarrassment as I moved toward our principal. All I needed now was for my multitude of parental figures to make a show of themselves, and my humiliation would be complete.
I heard a whistle—the shrill, two-fingers-in-the-mouth kind. To my knowledge, no one in my family possessed that skill. Looking into the crowd, I saw her. Freya was standing, smiling, clapping. Everyone saw her—beautiful in a summer dress topped with a jeans jacket, her blond hair gleaming in the faint glow of overhead pot lights. This cool, beautiful, stylish woman was cheering for me: tall, friendless Swallow Morrison.
“Go, Low!” she cried, and I couldn’t help but smile. I felt special, cool… chosen. (A month later, when we received the photo of Mr. Graph handing me my diploma, I was beaming.)
Eventually, we got through the roll and our principal announced that we were all high school graduates. My classmates tossed their mortarboards into the air. I abstained because my ceremonial cap had to be pinned securely to my bushel of hair with barrettes and bobby pins. As my peers gathered their headpieces, I hurried off the stage and out of the gymnasium.
Outside, parents and guests milled about in the parking lot, huddling together in the June downpour. In the Pacific Northwest, it was not uncommon for May to offer beautiful warm weather, only to be followed by an unseasonable blast of winter in June. Juneuary, people called it, like it was clever and not just ripped off from some corny weatherman. It was difficult to find my family amid the sea of umbrellas, but I spotted them clustered under an overhang. My mom was deep in conversation with Freya.
My stomach flipped over. What were they talking about? Me, of course. They had nothing else in common. What was my mom telling her? I had been presenting a carefully curated image of myself to Freya, revealing personal information only as I saw fit. My mother could blow this for me.
I hurried up to them. “Hey.”
My mom swept me into a hug. “Congratulations, honey!”
I turned to Freya who hugged me quickly. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
“Freya says you’re an excellent potter,” my mom said.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” But I was pleased.
“Low’s my favorite student,” Freya added.
Other than a group of seniors Freya taught on Sunday afternoons, I knew I didn’t have a lot of competition. But still, I was warmed by the compliment.
“That’s so nice,” my mom said. “Can you join us for dinner, Freya?”
While I wanted to celebrate with Freya, the thought of bringing her back to our home filled me with anxiety. What would she think of our clutter and chaos? The plethora of parents bustling around the kitchen, playfully teasing and tickling each other. Our chickens, goats, and the pig? Would she judge us like so many others had?
“I’d love to,” Freya said, squeezing my mom’s hand, “but I’m meeting a friend.”
A friend?
Something dark and ugly filled my stomach, worked its way up to my chest and throat. It was jealousy. I’d experienced it years earlier with a brief middle school friendship. But this was deeper, more powerful. Because Freya had made me feel special, treasured, unique. She was mine and I was hers. And now I was finding out that she had a friend? Who was she? How had Freya found her? And could this mystery person offer Freya something that I could not?
She turned to me. “I’ve got to run, but I wanted to see you on your special day.” Standing on her toes, she pecked my cheek and then left.
I watched her hurry through the rain, as did my mom, Vik, Leonard, and a number of others intrigued by her beauty and presence. It could have been an excuse, I realized. The thought of eating lentil stew with my motley family may have provoked the invention of an imaginary friend. As Freya climbed into her white Range Rover, my mom spoke.
“She seems nice.”
“She is.”
“And she’s very pretty.”
“She’s beautiful.”
I could feel my mom’s eyes on me then: curious… even suspicious. But she must have pushed her innate protectiveness aside, because she smiled. “Let’s get you home. I made a big pot of dal. Your favorite.”
But dal wasn’t my favorite. A bacon double cheeseburger was my favorite. My own mother didn’t even know me.
“I’ll join you guys in a bit,” I said. “I want to stop by one of the grad parties.”
My dad approached us then. “I’ve got some homegrown in the glove box. Do you want to take it?”
“I’m good.”
Gwen said, “Don’t be late. I’ve made baba ganoush for an appetizer.”
My family scurried through the rain, toward the two vehicles required to transport them home. I skulked to my truck parked on an adjacent street, the rain wetting my mortarboard and blue synthetic graduation gown. Freya had come to see me receive my diploma. She had stood up and cheered my walk across the stage. I was grateful… I was.
So why did I feel so betrayed?
9
I drove directly to Freya and Max’s waterfront house. If the white Range Rover was in the driveway, I would know that Freya had fabricated this friend. I’d know that she had no one but me to confide in, to laugh with, to support her… and I would be happy. If the white Range Rover was there, I could cheerfully go home to my family celebrations, to baba ganoush, and my eighth favorite meal. But if it wasn’t there… I wasn’t sure what I would do.
From the road, I could peek through the trees into Freya and Max’s yard. The house had a two-car garage, but I’d never known them to park their cars in it. Freya had casually mentioned that it housed Max’s motorcycle (the image of him on a Harley prompted a feeling that bordered on sexual arousal), and a bunch of boating equipment. I spotted Max’s black Range Rover, but Freya’s white model was missing.
My face burned, and my pulse pounded as I turned the car around and drove back toward town. It wouldn’t be difficult to find her. There were three restaurants in Hawking that would be up to Freya’s health, taste, and cleanliness standards. Only one had an ocean view, so I drove there first. Pulling up across the street from the boutique hotel that housed the eatery, I parked my truck. From there, I could see t
he hotel’s tiny parking lot, and Freya’s big white SUV. I had guessed correctly.
I was trembling by then, sweat beading my forehead and upper lip. I’d experienced intense jealousy only once before. Her name was Topaz. She had shown up at my school in ninth grade. She’d been shy and awkward, and I was sure I’d found my person. But after a month, she began to settle in, to come out of her shell. Soon, she was shrugging me off like an itchy sweater, easing her way into more popular circles. I’d felt hurt and angry, but I had let her go. Now, when I saw her laughing and smoking with her popular friends, I felt nothing.
But this was different. Freya had lied to me. She had told me that she had no one else. That she was bullied and taunted and I was her only friend in the world. Without me, she would be depressed and alone. She had let me feel important and needed. And now, she was out for dinner with some random bitch.
I got out of the truck and loped toward the waterfront boardwalk. The restaurant abutted it, offering views of the Pacific, the boats, and, on a clear day, the mountains off in the distance. Even in the rain, Freya and her friend would be drawn to the outlook, their eyes darting from their salads to the spectacular scenery. If I brazenly walked by the window, they would see me. A six-foot-tall woman in a royal-blue cap and gown wouldn’t exactly blend in. Would Freya feel like she had been caught cheating? Would she drop her fork? Spill her wine? Run after me and beg my forgiveness?
But I wasn’t ready to make a scene, not yet anyway. I stopped several yards away, a vantage point that allowed me to see into the dining area without being spotted. The mortarboard still tenuously affixed to my head acted as a mini-umbrella, keeping the rain out of my eyes. If Freya wasn’t in a window seat, I would have to rethink my strategy. But I knew she would be. Only the best seat in the house would do for Freya. As predicted, I spotted her light blond hair at a table for two.
Freya’s back was to me, allowing me to examine her companion unobserved. The woman had a dark bob, tawny skin, a pretty face. She wasn’t stunning like Freya was, but she was undeniably attractive. She looked to be about Freya’s age, give or take a couple of years. Their body language was casual and familiar, like they had been friends for months. They were chatting and laughing, drinking white wine and noshing on bowls filled with healthy grains and roasted vegetables. They looked so right together, like a pair of matching salt and pepper shakers. It hurt me. Even when I wasn’t drenched, wearing a drooping cap and massive gown, I would never look like I fit with Freya.
The summer storm did nothing to cool my roiling emotions. As I watched this woman spear a piece of avocado and put it in her mouth, her eyes suddenly met mine. Her brow furrowed, ever so slightly, at the sight of the sopping graduate lurking on the boardwalk. But her gaze quickly returned to Freya. She was enamored with the beautiful blonde, just like I was. And then, I realized I had seen her before. I knew who she was. And I knew how to get to her.
I turned and hurried away, my gown billowing out behind me like a Dickensian villain.
summer 2019
10 jamie vincent
On a Wednesday afternoon at the end of June, Low Morrison came into my gift shop with her résumé. She’d been there before, browsing through the items, paying particular attention to the pottery section. She was hard not to notice—over six feet tall with a mop of dark red hair and pale, almost translucent skin. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t place her. I observed her with my nerves on edge, afraid she’d break something. She just seemed so gangly and awkward. But then I saw her pick up one of Freya’s cerulean-blue dishes. She handled the piece delicately, almost lovingly.
On this visit, she strode directly to the counter. “Hi. I’m Low Morrison. I’d like to apply for a summer job,” she said.
I hadn’t advertised for a shop assistant, but I hoped I was going to need one. I’d opened my store last fall, when the tourist season was in decline. Retail was new to me, and I was nervous. Opening off-season gave me a chance to ease into the business before the summer’s tourist boom. Covering rent over the slow winter months was not ideal, but thanks to our savings and my husband’s recent book advance, it was possible. And I knew the shop would be a success. I had carefully curated my merchandise, supporting local artisans and other Pacific Northwest designers. My price point was high-end but within reason for the clientele I was sure to attract. I’d done my research into the tourist market.
But, something about Low made me uneasy. She was so intense, so direct, so… looming. Maybe it was discriminatory hiring practices, but I was afraid she would scare away customers.
“I’m not actually hiring at the moment,” I said sheepishly. “But I’ll keep your résumé on file and give you a call if things pick up.”
The girl just stood there, blinking at me for several seconds. “You’ll be overrun by tourists come July, and you’re going to need help.”
“I hope you’re right,” I replied with a smile. “I’ll give you a call then.”
She stood for a beat longer and then stalked out.
Hopefully, I’d get a few more applicants before the summer rush. I’d envisioned a salesclerk who was bubbly, warm, and gregarious. Low was the opposite. Perhaps she’d be fine with customers, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend so much time with this odd girl in close quarters. I was vulnerable then, still shaky from what I’d endured. I was healing, but slowly. Very slowly.
The move to the island was supposed to be a fresh start. I was leaving behind a stressful career in marketing, manifesting my dream of owning my own gift shop. My husband, Brian, had recently sold a series of young-adult fantasy novels and was eager to leave his teaching job to write full-time. If we sold our Seattle house (thanks to Amazon, real-estate prices had skyrocketed), our stock portfolio, and most of our furniture, we could just afford to pursue our dreams on this relatively affordable island.
“And we won’t talk about the baby,” Brian said. “We’ll put all that pain and ugliness behind us.”
“Okay,” I said.
But I couldn’t. While my husband was able to immerse himself in a dystopian universe filled with heroic teenagers, my mind still drifted to our loss. The store—Hawking Mercantile—was demanding, time-consuming, energy sucking, but it was not mentally taxing enough to distract me from what we had endured: the crushing disappointment as all our efforts to become parents failed.
I had always wanted to be a mom. Despite my devotion to my career, I didn’t take my fertility for granted. When I turned twenty-eight, I suggested we start trying to get pregnant. Brian wanted to wait. He wanted to save more money, buy a bigger home, get a better car. “If we wait until everything’s perfect, we’ll never have a child,” I cajoled him. He acquiesced and we pulled the goalie. After a year of fruitless unprotected sex, we saw a fertility doctor.
Thus began three years of acupuncturist visits, funky herbs, hormone injections, expensive in vitro treatments, and tears. Endless tears. I was the problem. Tests confirmed that Brian’s sperm were swift and healthy, but I had a hostile vagina. That’s the term my (male) doctor used to describe the bacteria in my cervical mucus that was attacking Brian’s sperm. My husband’s healthy, well-intentioned swimmers were being murdered by the evil guardians of my barren womb. I envisioned a horror-movie scenario where stalwart explorers were taken out by a giant vulva with snapping shark teeth. It was a wonder Brian could bear to touch me.
Eventually, we decided to adopt. We didn’t need a biological connection to love a child and make it ours. After diligent research, we found a reputable agency to help facilitate an identified adoption. This meant that a birth mother would select us. Brian was uncomfortable with some of the tactics the agency recommended. In addition to posting a “sparkling” profile on their site, they suggested we create our own website and Facebook page, sharing photos of our home, our travels, our pets, and our hobbies.
“I feel like we’re trying to sell our apartment or our car. But we’re selling ourselves,” he said.
And it worked! We were chosen! A seventeen-year-old girl named Mia selected us. She had wide-set eyes, a bow of a mouth, and long dark hair. She lived in a suburb of Chicago, was five months along when we were introduced via Skype. Her bump was clearly visible. We were meeting our baby, too.
I liked her. Mia was cute and bubbly and bright. We messaged often, Skyped once a week. She sent us her twenty-two-week ultrasound photo on time, our baby the size of a small banana.
“It’s a girl,” Mia told us, and Brian and I burst into happy tears.
My chats with Mia went beyond the pregnancy. She told me about the baby’s father, a cute, sporty boy whom she had thought she loved, until she realized he was selfish and immature. There was drama in her friend group, some related to her condition, some typical mean-girl stuff. Her parents were supportive, she said, but they didn’t want to engage with Brian and me. It was hard for them to give away their grandchild, but they knew it was for the best.
“It might make them feel better if they spoke to us,” I suggested.
“One day,” she assured me.
Mia said the things I needed to hear. “My baby is so lucky to have parents like you.” And “One day, I’ll be a great mom, too. I’m just not ready yet.” I felt altruistic. We were giving a baby a loving home; we were giving her mother a chance to grow up.
The Swap Page 4
